Sherlock Finds a New Addiction
by wendymarlowe
Summary: John comes home to find Sherlock dangerously bored - contemplating-cocaine-again bored. He manages to get Sherlock to re-focus his attention, this time on John. Sherlock discovers he likes getting to "deduce" what John wants. And when he deduces that John really, really wants to get off, then, well, who is he to say no?
1. Chapter 1

NOTE: This chapter is pretty G-rated, but the next few will work their way up toward an "M," I promise!

* * *

John hates when Sherlock is bored. The first three days weren't so bad - Sherlock slowly came down from the high of the last case, sleeping for fourteen hours straight and then clattering around in the kitchen with some foul-smelling experiment John was afraid to touch. But the fourth day brought back the spontaneous 3 AM violin concerts, which were mostly dissonant scraping noises, and the sixth day involved Sherlock taking apart the microwave into dozens of tiny metal bits and then soaking the entire pile (and much of the kitchen table) in homemade acid. John took one look, turned around, and went out for a walk. Sherlock was gone when he came back. John texted Mycroft the next morning, just a precaution, and tried not to worry.

Sherlock stayed gone for two days. John came home from the surgery on the eighth day post-case, closed the door behind him, and took less than five seconds to realize something was very, very wrong.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He was sitting, frozen, hunched over on the sofa. Staring at a small amount of white powder piled carefully on the coffee table. John's heart stopped.

"Are you - did you -"

"I want it, John." Sherlock didn't look up. "I bought it and it's _right there_ and I need to get out of my goddamned _skull_ and I've just been trying to hold off until you got back but I don't know if I can any longer." His voice sounded hollow, a frail shell of its normal melodic self. "I need it."

John took a deep breath and fought to suppress the adrenaline suddenly rushing through him. Sherlock had bought cocaine. Sherlock had bought cocaine, but hadn't used it. Yet. Sherlock had bought cocaine but hadn't used it yet because he was waiting for _John_. Hoping John could save him from himself.

_Right then_. John shrugged off his coat, hung it up, then silently went to sit cross-legged on the oriental carpet in front of the fire. He felt Sherlock's gaze on his face, but he didn't turn.

"Come here," he said quietly, infusing as much steel in his tone as he dared. "Sit facing me, Indian-style, knees touching mine."

Sherlock made a small sound. "You're not going to . . . yell? Throw away the cocaine?"

"No. I will help, but it has to be your choice. You need to trust me for it to work." John let his hands fall loosely on his thighs, palms down, and closed his eyes. He didn't open them again until he felt the light pressure of Sherlock's knees against his own. When Sherlock had stopped moving, John looked up and found his flatmate mirroring his own posture, albeit with a question in his eyes.

"Hands out, palms up."

Sherlock licked his lips, opened his mouth to ask a question, but obviously thought better of it. And complied. John took Sherlock's hands in a gentle grip and pressed the pads of his thumbs into Sherlock's palms.

"Eyes on mine. Don't talk - just focus on me. Focus on me. Focus on me. Focus on me . . ." John repeated the words until they were just sounds, until they had lost all usefulness for conveying meaning. He hadn't done this in ages, not since his first year in the army and one of his army mates introduced the squad to meditation. It had seemed a bit silly then, at first, but they all had tried it a few times and John had privately thought it helped, at least a bit. He kept his eyes locked on Sherlock's, willing his face into impassiveness. He wondered idly when he had given this up.

"Focus on me. Focus on me. Focus on me." Sherlock's brows were lowered slightly - confusion and curiosity. But he was no longer quivering, no longer about to jump up and steal the cocaine away to his room. And he was focused on John's face. John used his peripheral vision to read Sherlock's body language and vital signs - his chest was moving slower now, his breathing deeper and more even. His pulse, if John had been able to time it, should have been slowing as well. The lines of his posture said Sherlock was relaxing, giving in to the repetition. "Focus on me."

John kept it up until Sherlock began to sway. Just the tiniest little bit, but it was enough to prove he really was affected by the slow and steady monotone. John let the chant die off, but kept his eyes on Sherlock's.

"Half an hour, Sherlock. I am going to give you half an hour to deduce me."

Sherlock blinked and swallowed, pulling back into himself a tiny bit. "Deduce you?" he echoed.

"Observe me, read me, and let that guide your actions. Keep your focus on me."

"What should I do?"

John lifted his chin a fraction. "Whatever you think will make me happy. Half an hour, Sherlock. Go."

Sherlock licked his lips, his eyes growing a bit brighter at the challenge. "John Hamish Watson, younger of two children, sister Harriet, goes by Harry. Alcoholic, which you don't like but feel like you have to tolerate -"

"Not that," John interrupted. "Not my past. Deduce me _right now_."

"Ah." Sherlock straightened his spine a bit, settling into his "deducing" pose. "Long day at the surgery, at least two difficult patients -"

"_No_. Not talk; do."

Sherlock stared one more long moment, then gracefully - and silently - rose to his feet. "Will you sit here the whole time?" he asked quietly.

"I will remain wherever you think I want to be."

Sherlock nodded and disappeared into the kitchen. John arched his back, extracting a sharp crackling sound, and pulled out his phone to set a 30 minute timer. He took one more glance at it, to ensure there wasn't anything likely to draw his attention away, then silenced everything except the alarm and slid the phone across the floor until it fetched up against the leg of the desk. No need for that distraction until time ran out. He closed his eyes again, let his palms fall back on his thighs, and forced himself into stillness.

He lifted his head precisely four minutes later, when Sherlock reappeared with a cup of tea and a sandwich. _Two sandwiches_, John amended - he had (correctly) deduced that John would prefer him to take in some calories himself. John accepted the tea and the plate and sipped in silence.

Sherlock waited until John had finished both his tea and his sandwich - and until he had finished most of his own - before offering a hand to help John to his feet. "Go upstairs and lie on your bed face-down," he said quietly. "Your shoulder is paining you."

John opened his mouth to protest - a nap wasn't really what he had intended - but Sherlock looked so earnest and serious and John found he didn't want to interfere with whatever fragile _thing_ was happening right at that moment. He heard Sherlock picking up the used plates and teacups as he headed up the stairs to his room.

It was military-neat, like always, but he hadn't bothered to make his bed that morning. John debated changing into pajama pants and a t-shirt, but his shoulder _was_ hurting. He ultimately compromised, toeing off his shoes and socks and pulling off his jumper and climbing under the rumpled covers still in his shirt and work trousers. The sound of the kitchen sink running came from downstairs. Sherlock rinsing their dishes.

The door creaked open a minute later. John turned to look over his shoulder - Sherlock, hands still damp, watching him intently from the doorway.

"You're not tired," Sherlock said. "Too curious about what I'm doing. But a patient fell against you today and jostled your shoulder, and you can't quite get the scarred part of the muscles to relax."

John nodded.

"I can help, if you'll let me." Sherlock drew closer, stretched out a hand to trail his fingertips lightly over John's injured shoulder. "The scar is paining you, a massage will loosen the muscles, therefore a massage would make you happy." A pang of uncertainty crossed his face. "Did I deduce correctly?"

"Yes." John closed his eyes and buried his face in his pillow. It figured Sherlock would know how to give a massage, just like he knew everything else - the man was a bloody sponge when it came to strange skills. And he did have those long, agile fingers . . .

The second touch, when it came, was beautifully gentle. John made no motion toward removing his shirt, and Sherlock didn't ask. He just lowered himself onto the edge of the bed so he could lay his palms flat on John's shoulderblades and started rubbing little circles into John's skin through the fabric. The circles gradually grew into firmer glides, up and down over muscles John hadn't even really realized were sore. Sherlock carefully worked every trace of stiffness out of John's shoulder, then his fingertips drifted upward to the nape of John's neck and worked all the tension out there as well. John let out an involuntary moan at the sensation. He immediately regretted it, but Sherlock merely huffed softly and ignored the noise.

John really had intended to stay awake, but the distant ringing of the alarm on his mobile brought him out of a near-doze. Sherlock's hands were still trailing over his back, gently but with just enough pressure to bully his strained muscles into submission. John stifled a yawn and rolled over onto his back. Sherlock was staring down at him with an intense expression.

"Better?" John asked.

Sherlock pressed his lips together and nodded. "I didn't . . . that was good," he finally said.

"Are you ready to go flush the cocaine?"

"I was intending to do it already, when I finished the dishes, but I thought you might want to watch. To make sure I hadn't just hidden it." He ducked his head. "I considered it," he admitted, "but it wouldn't have made you happy. So I didn't."

John grabbed his hand and squeezed. It wouldn't have felt like such a natural gesture an hour ago. "Thank you."

They went back downstairs together and Sherlock flushed the white powder down the toilet. John watched, nodded, then went to go order supper.


	2. Chapter 2

The next day at the surgery was, if anything, worse than the day before. John found himself checking his phone after every patient, praying Sherlock might have texted him about a case and he just had missed the chirp of a new message. Nothing. He considered calling Lestrade and begging, but even the DI couldn't make new cases appear out of thin air. Sherlock wasn't the only one dying of boredom.

John's leg started bothering him in the Tube on the way home. _Bloody figures_. He didn't even know where his cane was anymore. He limped the three blocks from the Tube station to 221B, then worked his uneven way up the stairs.

And was surprised by the sight of Sherlock sitting cross-legged on the rug in front of the fireplace, the exact same pose and position as from the night before. Sherlock looked up as John entered - a flash of those unearthly bright eyes - and then lowered his head once more. He didn't say anything, but then he didn't have to.

"You'd like to . . . again?" John asked. And then winced at how he must have sounded. "It's fine, I'm just surprised," he added.

"Please."

A snippet of conversation floated through John's mind -_ "I've never begged for anything in my life."_ Sherlock talking to The Woman. And yet -

John took his time shucking his coat and untying his shoes, but his eyes never left the back of Sherlock's head. Who, for his part, seemed to be willing to wait silently for John to be ready. John eventually padded over in his stocking feet and settled himself, knees touching, in front of his flatmate.

"Ready?"

Sherlock met his eyes and offered his hands, palm-upwards.

"Focus on me. Focus on me. Focus on me. Focus on me." John found himself settling into the rhythm of the words, too, some of the day's stress melting away. Sherlock's face was still pinched, still pained with the strain of not self-destructing, but his eyes were clear and more honestly unguarded than John had ever seen before. "Focus on me. Focus on me."

It didn't take as long this time for Sherlock to begin to tilt minutely forward as he concentrated. John rubbed his thumbs in soothing strokes against Sherlock's palms and let the words disappear into silence. Sherlock licked his lips - the motion of his tongue so subtle he probably had no idea he had done it - but John noticed.

"How long would you like, Sherlock?"

Sherlock blinked slowly, looking a bit lost. "An hour?"

"Okay. Go. Deduce me."

It took Sherlock a minute to rouse himself into movement, and another before he finally stood and wandered dazedly into the kitchen. John set his alarm for an hour, slid the phone all the way to under the sofa this time, and kept his spine straight as he let his eyelids drift closed.

The refrigerator door opened, closed, the sink ran, and something in the kitchen clicked. The electric kettle. John looked up when he felt Sherlock's hand on his shoulder.

"I'm going down to borrow some milk from Mrs. Hudson - we're out."

"That's fine."

Sherlock disappeared out the door. He reappeared a few minutes later bearing a measuring cup full of milk, which he ferried over to the kitchen. This time when he brought John his tea, he also included two of John's favorite chocolate biscuits on the plate.

"You're not hungry enough for a sandwich, and you'll want to make me eat a proper dinner after this anyway."

John thought, nodded, and accepted the cup and saucer. Sherlock being considerate was . . . novel. And strangely calming. He rather wanted to ask Sherlock whether he was going to eat, too, but Sherlock read the question on his face before he could ask it.

"No tea for me today, but I did finish the rest of the cup of milk and ate another two of your biscuits. And I promise I'll eat something later."

John nodded again and sipped his tea. Good to know that Sherlock was indeed capable of noticing things like how he liked his tea (no sugar, never again, thanks to Baskerville thankyouverymuch) and what types of biscuits he preferred. Sherlock was perched on the arm of the sofa, now, looking rather like an oversized bird of prey as he watched John eat. John pointedly ignored him, although it was hard not to be self-conscious when those searching eyes were focused so carefully on his every move.

"What next?" Sherlock asked quietly.

John looked up, allowing the eye contact, but didn't answer.

And Sherlock frowned. "You're tired, your leg is bothering you, and you feel a headache coming on. You don't want to sleep, though, because you are determined to follow this through. The caffeine in the tea will help with that. You - ah." He plucked the now-nearly-empty teacup from John's fingers and set it on the desk. "Lie on the sofa, curled on your right side, head toward the window. I'll be right back."

John did as instructed, resting his head the best he could against the sofa's stiff arm because the throw pillows had once again mysteriously disappeared. Sherlock came back down the stairs a moment later with a large bundle which turned out to contain John's own pillow, which he tucked almost tenderly under John's head. The rest of the bundle was made up of John's spare pillow and blanket. Sherlock wrapped the blanket neatly around the pillow as many times as it would go. "Bad leg up. Tilt your hips."

The wrapped pillow turned out to be just the perfect height and density to support John's leg comfortably (_of course it would be_, John thought) and the new position was actually quite comfortable. Sherlock poked and prodded until John was lying mostly on his back, with one leg trapped under the spare pillow and the other propped on top of it, and just enough space at the head of the sofa for Sherlock to slide his hips back and sit down.

"That takes care of the exhaustion and the leg," he said quietly. "Now the headache." And he slid his fingers through John's hair.

"Oh God." John couldn't hold back the words.

"Shhh - you're letting me deduce everything, remember?" Sherlock prodded, clever fingertips seeking out John's temples with just the right amount of pressure.

John closed his eyes and tried not to whimper.

"Don't bother trying to . . . I understand," said Sherlock. "You love the way my fingers feel on your scalp, and it's been three or four girlfriends ago since you last had someone do this. Brenda - the blonde. You always came home from dates with your hair more rumpled than the weather would account for."

John thought he might have mumbled something affirmative.

"You do manage to surprise me sometimes," Sherlock said quietly. "I never would have thought about trying this type of focus, but it's working exceedingly well. Would you like to know what I did while you were gone today, John? I cleaned the kitchen. I was going out of my mind again and I almost went out to buy more cocaine and instead I _cleaned_. Because it was something I could do while focusing on you even though you weren't here. I knew you would be upset about my larvae experiment and rather than write that information off as insignificant, I reclassified it as vital. You wouldn't be happy unless I cleaned. So I did."

John held his entire body very still, listening to Sherlock's monologue. This was another way for Sherlock to demonstrate his deductive skills, he realized. Sherlock knew John wished he'd share his internal running commentary more often, so that's exactly what he was doing even though it involved admitting things which put him in a less-than-flattering light. Like the fact that he wouldn't have cleaned unless John wanted him to. And the fact that, faced with the prospect of a real-life John's disapproval, he_ did_.

Sherlock's fingers worked downward again until he was practically cradling John's skull and massaging the back of his neck. John kept his eyes tightly closed, praying nothing about his current thoughts was showing on his face. He was doing this for Sherlock, he really was, and just because Sherlock's hands felt goddamned _fantastic_ on his scalp, that was no reason to frame this as anything other than a slightly manic flatmate trying to calm down through platonic touch. No reason at all -

"You're aroused," Sherlock observed.

John's eyes snapped open. He didn't dare look down - no way to know whether Sherlock had visual evidence or was just guessing, but John had been just about as relaxed as it was possible to be and yes, it was true that having talented fingers combing through his hair reminded him of Brenda the blonde and if those memories brought others along, it was hardly his fault. Still, not something he had wanted Sherlock deducing.

"Ignore it," he said.

Sherlock's fingers hit some particularly good spot, coaxing a little shiver to run down John's spine. And _fuck_, a sensation in his groin that John knew only too well. Trust Sherlock to know things like that before even John had realized them.

"I thought you wanted me to deduce what might make you happy?" Sherlock didn't slow his gentle massage, didn't so much as twitch, but still John got the impression Sherlock was poised and ready to move those questing fingers elsewhere at a single word from John. And hell, he wanted to, wanted to see whether Sherlock's hands were as magic on his cock as they were in his hair -

But no. "Ignore it."

Sherlock slumped a bit and finished with a delicious long stroke down the nape of John's neck before drawing back. "Violin, then. Close your eyes and listen."

John did. And when Sherlock played all John's favorite songs for the rest of the hour, it was absolutely heaven.


	3. Chapter 3

John shot bolt upright out of a dead sleep at the sound of someone in his bedroom. He automatically fumbled for his gun, starting to panic when his fingers couldn't find it in the dark. It took several seconds for reality to sink in: he was no longer in Afghanistan. His gun was safely locked in the box in the back of his closet, just where he kept it. And the mysterious figure in his room was, obviously, Sherlock. Who seemed completely oblivious to what had just happened.

"Up!" Sherlock demanded.

A glance at the alarm proved it to be just after two in the morning. "What the bloody hell, Sherlock?"

"A case!" Sherlock flipped on the overhead light, blinding them both. "Text from Lestrade - two drownings tonight. A member of parliament and her husband. Oh, I do love drownings!"

John blinked. _Only Sherlock._

"Get up - we need to go before they tromp all over the scene!"

"Fine, just give me a minute." John cracked his back and swung his legs out from under the covers. "I need a trip to the loo and a change of clothes before we go." He eyed Sherlock's dressing gown. "You do too," he added. "Despite your affinity for wearing dressing gowns in inappropriate places, you'll probably be cold if you go out without shoes."

Sherlock glanced down at himself as if surprised to see he wasn't already in a suit. "Ah. Yes. Hurry." And he dashed back down the stairs.

_I guess it's about time_, John thought to himself as he hurried to get ready. _Another day without a case would have driven both of us mad_. And hopefully this would help pull Sherlock out of whatever state he'd been in for the last several days. It was thrilling (and rather flattering, truth be told) to have Sherlock focus so intently on John's every possible want or need, to see that meditation helped, but John felt like he needed a bit more time to process things before they did it again. _If_ they ever did it again. _God, Sherlock actually cleaned._

It wasn't as cold outside as John had feared - unpleasantly damp, yes, but merely "uncomfortable" and not "completely bloody freezing." Sherlock turned up the collar of his coat and acted impervious to the weather. John trailed behind, happy Sherlock had a case but wishing they could have worried about it later. In the morning, maybe.

In the end, it didn't matter anyway - Sherlock didn't last ten minutes at the crime scene before exploding in a shower of vitriol (mostly directed at Anderson, who had dared to question Sherlock's greatness) and storming off to find a taxi. John jogged to catch up.

"Not worth your time, then?"

Sherlock growled low in his throat. "Barely worth their time, little as it's worth. Smudged bootprint crosswise on the footbridge. They were out walking late, she'd had a good deal to drink - not surprising, giving her alcohol problem - and her eminently impractical shoes weren't made for muddy slogs through the park at midnight. She went over the railing - decorative, not terribly useful for stopping anyone falling in - and was too pissed to tell which way was up. Husband jumped in to save her, just as blotto as she was, and didn't do any better. No murder, no mystery, just two drunk idiots in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"You could have told Lestrade that, at least."

"Why bother?" Sherlock made an impatient gesture. "Even he should see it soon enough. Damn it, why is it so hard to find a cab after 2 AM?"

"Too busy ferrying around drunk idiots, I guess," John said. "Slow down, please - I don't mind running after you when I absolutely have to, but this don't constitute an emergency."

Sherlock paused to wait for him, but he fidgeted. It was like his body just had to move - if it wasn't his feet, it had to be his hands.

"This didn't help at all," he said.

John caught up and was pleased to find Sherlock shortening his strides so they could walk without making his leg worse. "I know."

"I need - something." Sherlock glanced sideways at John, then away. "Why am I telling you? It's illogical. Never mind - see you back at the flat -"

John caught Sherlock's arm before the detective could pull away entirely.

"John -"

"No." John planted his feet and tightened his grip on Sherlock's wrist. "You're itching to go find someone from your homeless network who would be willing to help you acquire more cocaine, aren't you? Don't lie to me, Sherlock."

Sherlock licked his lips and dipped his head.

"What can I do?"

"Nothing." Sherlock stopped tugging, just allowed John's fingers to encircle the bones of his wrist. "You've been helpful - more than I could have possibly asked for - but I'll go stark raving mad if I have to spend any more time in 221B. I can't _think_, John. I can't think and I can't turn it off and cocaine is the only other thing that's helped me in the past."

"So let's not go back." John rubbed his thumb gently up and down Sherlock's wrist, evocative of their soothing physical contact that afternoon. "Surely there's somewhere in London we can go that's open at this hour?"

Sherlock stilled. "What kind of somewhere?"

"Somewhere dry?" The generalized damp was beginning to give way to fog and the first hint of raindrops. "Dry, preferably warm, and I'd rather not need an illegal firearm because I deliberately didn't bring it tonight. Other than that, I leave it in your hands."

"I -" Sherlock took a slow breath and swallowed. "All right."


	4. Chapter 4

They ended up at an all-night diner John never even knew existed, despite the fact they were only ten blocks from home. Somehow over the remainder of the walk, John's grip had shifted and they ended up holding hands the rest of the way. It was definitely not something John would have ever done before - probably still wouldn't have done, if they hadn't had the streets to themselves because it was the middle of the night and almost-but-not-quite raining - but it didn't feel as odd as John's brain kept reminding him it should have. And it did seem to be helping Sherlock, who slowly transformed from a barely-contained mass of energy back to his usual effervescent, sardonic self.

The diner was small, dark, and smelled like stale cooking oil. John and Sherlock were ushered to a booth in the back by a bored-looking waitress (too old to wear her makeup that heavily and too jaded to care, John observed) and left alone with their grease-spotted menus. John glanced at his, then pulled out his phone to call Lestrade.

"Anything more you want to add about the case, Sherlock?"

Sherlock pointedly looked away.

"Fine." The conversation wasn't as awkward as John had feared - Lestrade was happy for the help, belated as it was, and expressed sympathy for John having to deal with Sherlock while he was In One Of His Moods like that.

"I wish I had something more for you," he said, his voice sounding flat through the bad connection, "but it's been relatively quiet here for the last week or two. And I'm leaving for a little getaway with the wife tomorrow, so it will be at least three or four more days until you two can expect a call from me."

John blinked and frowned. "Thought you two were having a bit of a rough patch - everything settled then?"

He could hear Lestrade's hesitation over the phone. "Not quite, no, but she thought it would be good for us to get away for a few days. Turn off the job - and the mobile - and spend some time together. We'll see."

"It's not going to work," Sherlock said flatly from across the table. "She's still seeing her yoga instructor."

John shot him a dark look, praying Lestrade hadn't heard, and wrapped up the call. Lestrade promised to call them when he got back. John got his phone back in his pocket just as the waitress came back to get their orders. Under the weight of John's steady glare, Sherlock finally consented to order a glass of juice and a side order of pancakes. And then, with a glance at John for verification, he ordered french toast with strawberries for John as well.

"Excellent," John said after the waitress had left. "I won't ask how you guessed -"

"I never guess."

"Right." John hid his smile behind a forced cough. "I was just going to ask what you _deduced_ my second choice would have been."

Sherlock's gaze went blank a second - John knew he must have already had the whole menu committed to memory, including misspellings and grease spots - and then he smirked. "Belgian waffle, plain, side of bacon, usually would have been your first choice but the french toast sounded warmer on a night like tonight. Despite the fact that both are usually served at approximately the same temperature."

And John was once again struck by a moment of _how the hell does he do that?_ "You're amazing, you know."

He expected Sherlock to shrug off the compliment, to say something annoyingly arrogant about how everyone else was an idiot, but Sherlock just swallowed hard and looked away. "I - thanks," he said quietly.

"Want to talk about it?"

Neither of them needed to specify what "it" was.

Sherlock kept his eyes on the weathered wall next to him, drumming his fingertips on the table. John held his body perfectly still until Sherlock finally licked his lips and slumped a bit against the back of the booth. "Can we go again?" he asked.

"You want me to say the words, or you just want to think them?"

"Whispering would be best, I think."

John felt Sherlock's fingers grope for his own under the table. He caught them with a light squeeze and curled his own around the backs of Sherlock's hands, once again pressing his thumbs into the sensitive skin of Sherlock's palms. Their knees nearly touched under the scarred wood of the tabletop.

"Focus on me," John whispered, locking his gaze on Sherlock's. "Focus on me. Focus on me. Focus on me."

There was something different about doing this in public, even in a nearly-deserted diner in the middle of the night during what was turning out to be a regular rainstorm, if the sound of the droplets hitting the front window were any indication. John found himself praying that their food would take a little longer than normal, just so they wouldn't be interrupted.

They were, unfortunately, but it turned out to be fine. The waitress brought their food, looked like she wanted to make a comment about how they were gazing devotedly into each other's eyes, then clearly thought better of it. She plopped their plates down with a _thud_ and left them alone without a word. John gently disentangled his hand from Sherlock's and picked up his fork.

Sherlock shook his head and started on his own plate a few seconds later. He still had a bit of a dazed look on his face, like he wasn't quite sure what he was doing there, but John kept his mouth shut and eventually Sherlock stopped looking like he was waiting for John to say something.

They finished their meal in silence. Sherlock paid without a glance at the bill, then pulled out his phone and actually called to order a cab. The two of them wandered outside to stand under the awning to wait, listening to the buzz of raindrops hitting the electric lights overhead and breathing in the smell of wet pavement.

"You want me to set my timer?" John asked quietly.

"No."

John looked up at his flatmate's face.

"I don't need a timer," Sherlock said. "I want to - to do this until the next case comes in. I need to. To keep me -"

"I understand," said John. And he did. "That's fine."

"Is it?" Sherlock looked right back, undoubtedly reading every detail of John's expression and body language. "You say you don't mind, but surely this isn't normal? For a flatmate to be so needy?"

Before he could think better of it, John was standing on tiptoe and pressing a quick kiss against Sherlock's cheek. And then even when he did think better of it, he couldn't make himself feel sorry for the gesture.

"Oh." Sherlock's voice sounded both tiny and awed. "I . . ." He licked his lips and trailed off into silence.

_Shitshitshitshit_. John hadn't meant to push, hadn't meant to make this seem like it needed to be more than it was. "Delete that," he said, his voice sounding rougher than it should have.

Sherlock licked his lips again. "I don't think I will," he said slowly. "I understand what you're trying to say - you didn't mean to push me into anything sexual - and I understand that you're concerned about how I might react to an overture of a physical nature. But you're allowing me to deduce what might make you happy, and right now I see an eighty-two percent chance that you'd be happier with me following up on that overture than with me dropping the subject."

John raised an eyebrow. "Eighty-two exactly?"

"Possibly as high as eighty-five. Hard to be sure."

John let out of huff of laughter and shook his head. "I pity the man who ever tries to keep up with your brain, Sherlock."

"That would be Mycroft."

"I suppose." John took a deliberate step away, determined not to be sidetracked by the Holmes brothers' feud. "In all seriousness, though - I don't want you doing anything you don't want to do, just because you think it will make me happier."

A crease appeared on Sherlock's brow. "Isn't that the point of this? I wouldn't have cleaned, otherwise."

"No, I meant -" John sighed. "Physically. Touching each other."

"Ah." Sherlock stared at the rain for several minutes in silence. John was just about to change the subject when he said, "I want to."

"Pardon?"

"I liked touching you in a non-sexual way. And I want to touch you in other ways, too. There's a wealth of data to be collected on how your body reacts to stimuli, John - I want to lose myself in that research."

John tried to hide his fond smile. "That is probably the most un-sexy way of propositioning someone in the history of ever."

"And yet you're aroused again."

John shifted his weight, feeling the telltale heat in his groin. "Yeah, I guess I am."

"Good."

And then the taxi saved them from having to discuss it further. Sherlock said "Baker Street" and they rode the rest of the way in a pleasantly tense silence.


	5. Chapter 5

It was rather nice, actually, not having to worry about whether Sherlock would notice something "off" about John's posture or vocal tone and then go drawing conclusions John didn't want drawn. The truth was out: John was somewhat aroused, Sherlock was okay with it, and the whole thing wasn't odd at all. The word "gay" never even came up - _as it shouldn't_, John decided. This wasn't about gay or straight, it was about _Sherlock_ and that's all there was to it.

John drew to a stop in the middle of the living room, waiting patiently for Sherlock to finish closing and locking both doors behind them. Sherlock took John's coat, shrugged off his own, hung both up where they belonged, then knelt down without a word and started untying John's shoes. It was awkward, Sherlock kneeling in front of him, but then John had to admit kissing his flatmate had been awkward too. And they had survived. John lifted his feet one at a time for Sherlock to remove his shoes and place them neatly by the door.

"Cold," Sherlock announced.

"Pardon?"

"You're damp and therefore cold. You're also tired, even though you're still running on a good bit of adrenaline."

John considered. "I suppose so."

"Come." Sherlock reached out a hand, which John took with almost no hesitation. Completely natural now. Although, to his surprise, Sherlock didn't lead him upstairs - he tugged him the short distance down the hallway to his own room.

John raised an eyebrow, a silent question which Sherlock (of course) interpreted correctly, but Sherlock merely pulled John all the way into the room and shut the door behind them.

"No surgery tomorrow, right?"

John nodded. "Three days off, actually, barring someone calling out sick."

"Good." Sherlock dropped John's hand and immediately set to work peeling John's jumper and button-down off him. They were both a bit damp, and it was a relief to get them off. Sherlock reached for the zipper of John's trousers.

"Sherlock?"

"Hush." Sherlock's touch was nearly insubstantial - he managed to unzip and remove John's trousers without actually touching his skin once, barely putting pressure on him even through the fabric. "Lie down, under the covers. Left side, I think - your leg is paining you more than your shoulder right now because of the rain, correct?"

"I guess so, yeah." And - given the lack of options and the surreal situation he found himself in - John did as he was told.

Sherlock quickly stripped off his own clothes, down to his pants, and slid between the sheets so his long form could spoon up against John's shorter one. He propped himself up on an elbow and stretched one long arm out across John's body, to turn off the light, then snuggled back in and tucked his chin up against the back of John's neck. They were pressed skin-to-skin against each other from neck to toes, Sherlock's skin warm in the dark, and John found himself more content than he had any right to be.

"Thank you," Sherlock whispered.

"Hmmm?"

"For this. For letting me do this." Sherlock slid his hand over John's body until it was curled over his heart. "It's . . . good."

John felt a sad smile take up semi-permanent residence on his face. Sherlock deserved so much more . . . "I'm not doing this out of pity," he said.

"I know." Sherlock answered. "Not entirely, anyway. But despite how it may seem sometimes, I do care whether you're happy."

John snuggled backwards against Sherlock's warmth. "I think I like it when you're being open with me like this."

"I know that too." Sherlock's hand started tracing lazy patterns over John's chest. "I'm not an easy person to live with, obviously. I'm even harder to love. And I'm truly, sincerely honored that you've seen fit to give me that chance."

John suddenly felt a bit dizzy. _Love?_ He would have definitely remembered saying something of the sort, wouldn't he? Would have remembered thinking it, _feeling_ it, certainly? It was on the tip of his tongue to tell Sherlock he'd deduced incorrectly, but something held him back - a tiny voice saying _he's right, you know_. John swallowed and tried to think of something appropriate to say. He drew a blank.

And then _everything_ went blank when Sherlock's hand drifted lower, fluttering over his abdomen and coming to rest over the fabric of his pants.

"Sherlock?"

He felt the low chuckle against his back. "Doesn't take a consulting genius to deduce this would make you happy, John. You've been tense for days."

"You don't have to -"

Sherlock nuzzled a warm kiss against the back of his ear. "We covered that already. I know I don't have to - I want to. And you want me to. So what's the problem?"

John licked his lips, tried in vain to come up with the answer he was certain must have been there, and drew another blank.

Sherlock's fingers petted, teased, then delved inside John's pants to ghost over his now-interested erection with no fabric to mute the effect of his touch. John drew in a shuddering breath and held it. Sherlock stroked more firmly and John's breath came rattling out with an audible sigh. He felt Sherlock's whole body shiver behind him.

And then Sherlock set to cataloguing John's physiological responses to direct stimuli, and John couldn't do much except breathe and occasionally moan and eventually squeeze the back of Sherlock's forearm in a tight grip as the tension built. His release, when it finally swept through him, was slow and sweet and lingering and punctuated by the tiny kisses Sherlock was pressing against his scalp as his hand guided John through the climax.

John melted bonelessly into the mattress. "That was -"

"I know." Sherlock let go, tugged John's pants back into their intended position, and leaned backward long enough to wipe his hand off on something before curling his body around John's again. "Don't worry about me - you needed that before going back to bed, or you'd wake up early in the morning. And you can sleep as late as you like - I promise I'll stay here with you the whole time. We can talk more in the morning."

John sighed and let his eyes drift closed, the thanks dying unspoken on his tongue.


	6. Chapter 6

He awoke to sunlight streaming in the window, a persistent morning erection, and twelve-odd stone of consulting detective pressing his body into the mattress.

"Good morning," Sherlock rumbled in his ear, then slid downward to nibble on his neck.

John shivered, arched, and reflexively brought his hands down to rest on Sherlock's shifting hips. "You're - ungh! - still here."

Sherlock drew back just enough to flash him a manic smile - frighteningly similar to his "just found three bodies in a locked room" grin - then ducked back down to tease the sensitive skin just over John's clavicle. "I slept better than I have in months," he murmured, "and I woke up with an armful of you. Of course I'm still here. It's making you happy."

John couldn't deny that - especially if you define "happy" as "morning erection getting more insistent by the second." Christ, he _had_ just come last night, hadn't he? John had memories of Sherlock's hands sliding over his body in the dark . . .

"Yes, you did, but that was just reconnaissance," Sherlock said in answer to John's unvoiced thought. "I promise this morning will be much better."

"It was pretty nice already last night," John admitted. "Rather surreal, but nice."

"Really?" Sherlock's lips drifted lower, down past John's collarbone and settling in over his pectoral. "I don't see why it should be surreal - you've thought about it plenty of times before."

"Not intentionally. And not with any expectation of anything actually happening."

"You were eying my arse not two weeks ago, when I was leaning over the body of that man who was killed by his son's girlfriend. Quite attentively, I might add."

John bit his lip. He'd forgotten about that. "Sorry." It really hadn't been intentional, but Sherlock had been wearing his navy suit and the trousers pulled just right and it was impossible not to notice. . .

"Don't be." Sherlock's hands slid up to tease at John's nipples while he dragged his tongue over John's skin. "I don't mind when it's you."

"I'm just still getting used to you being a bloke."

Sherlock drew back and cocked an eyebrow at him. "Brilliant observation," he said dryly.

"Not that - shit. _Obviously_ you're a bloke, Sherlock. I'm trying to get used to the idea of being in bed with someone who isn't female, that's all. Although the idea of doing this with any other man still squicks me out a bit. Not that there's anything wrong with that," he quickly amended. "But -"

"But this is good, and I'm me, so you don't mind."

". . . Yes."

"Good." Sherlock grinned and leaned back down to latch onto John's right nipple, grazing it with his teeth before giving it a firm suck. John's back arched automatically. Sherlock pinched John's other nipple gently between one long forefinger and thumb, then switched sides and repeated the combination. John instinctively bucked upward, seeking the friction of warm skin against his cock through the fabric of his pants. He was very definitely hard now, and the elastic of the waistband was biting into his skin.

Sherlock reached down with his free hand, without breaking contact with his lips or fingers, and eased John's pants down to his knees. They were both still buried in the comfortable cocoon of the sheets, lower legs tangling together in a teasingly familiar way. Sherlock gave John's cock one long, languorous stroke, then shifted his weight and replaced his hand with the hard planes of his abdomen. He undulated slowly against John's body and they both groaned.

"Christ, Sherlock, that's -"

"Hush." Sherlock stretched upward and startled John into silence with a quick peck on the lips - their first kiss, if you don't count the brush-on-the-cheek at the diner. John hushed. Sherlock shifted again, grinding his hips against John's in a maddeningly slow rhythm. John could feel the weight of Sherlock's erection pressing into his thigh, but it wasn't anywhere near as odd as he would have expected.

"I'm still deducing you," Sherlock explained. His voice was an octave lower than usual, growly and intense. "Let me learn what makes your body react."

John let his head roll back against the pillow. "Fuck."

"Mmmm." Sherlock drifted lower, trailing kisses down John's front, until he was almost entirely covered by the duvet and his warm breath was ghosting over John's cock. And then he leaned forward, pressing a single kiss on the tip, and John had to grab handfuls of sheets to keep from threading his fingers through Sherlock's silky hair.

"That's -" John never did figure out what he would have called the sensation, because Sherlock chose that moment to work John's cock all the way into his mouth and John's brain gave up on words entirely. He'd had blow jobs before, on occasion, but none of them were from _Sherlock_ and none of them had ever short-circuited him quite so thoroughly. Sherlock gave a little moan, a full-body wriggle of contentment, and set his long fingers to massaging John's shaft and bollocks as he worked. John quickly became a quivering mass of sensation under his touch.

He liked when his lovers drew it out a bit, which of course Sherlock deduced right away. And followed through exquisitely. He brought John right to the edge twice, three times, each time holding him there for a long moment before turning his attention to the sensitive skin on the inside of John's thighs or over his stomach and letting John come back down from that _almost almost almost there_ peak. John was ready to scream in frustration when Sherlock finally sank his mouth down over his length once more and coupled it with the tight grip-and-twist John usually found most effective when stroking himself and John came with a shout loud enough to echo.

There was a very definite smirk on Sherlock's face when he emerged from under the covers. John overcame his post-orgasmic lassitude long enough to haul Sherlock up the bed so they could lie shoulder-to-shoulder, both staring at the ceiling.

"Right." John licked his lips. "Dunno if I'm ready to reciprocate with quite that level of expertise just yet - this is all kind of new for me, as you obviously already know - but give me a minute and I'll see what I can do."

"Don't bother," Sherlock replied.

John rolled on his side so he could see his flatmate's face. "Surely with all you've deduced about me, you've come to the conclusion I'm not the kind of partner who would be that selfish."

"Obviously." Sherlock rolled, too, so their noses were only inches apart. His eyes were dark and almost unearthly in their intensity. "This isn't about me, though - it's about making you happy."

"And I would be very happy indeed to see what I could do to you."

Sherlock brought one hand up to trace the line of John's clavicle with his fingertip. "I can't - at the moment, I need to focus on you," he said slowly. "I would love you to give you that chance to experiment on me, too, but right now my attention is sharpened by that extra edge. It's a bit of a novelty, and it's helping. A lot. I want to earn the right to feel the way you just did, but not just yet."

Something clicked into place. "You want it as a reward," John said. "You want to stave it off as long as you can, and then you want me to reward you."

Sherlock blinked. "I - yes."

"And that will help distract you from -" - John started to say _cocaine_ and swiftly changed his mind - "-other things?"

"Yes."

"All right then." He took a deep breath, then sat up. "So in all our time as flatmates, have you deduced my ideal breakfast yet?"


	7. Chapter 7

It was the start of a very odd day. John spent most of the morning and half the afternoon curled in his armchair, ostensibly reading or poking at his blog, but mostly just watching Sherlock. Who was cleaning madly.

Sherlock usually had a vaguely disgruntled air about him when he did deign to clean - he'd remove the offending clutter and not one item more, and even that much was only when John was ready to start threatening the integrity of his experiments. He'd sometimes clean in the least effective way possible, in a blatantly passive-aggressive attempt to make John take over. It worked, on occasion - John did almost all the laundry for the both of them, now, after Sherlock managed to "accidentally" dye John's best cream-colored jumper a particularly vivid pink. And Sherlock's regularly shoddy attempts at doing the dishes had eventually prompted John to keep his favorite mug in his bedroom, so he would always have a clean cup when he wanted tea despite every other dish in the house having mold growing in it (intentional or not). It was irritating, but it was part of the price for living in Sherlock Holmes's orbit, so John usually just shrugged and worked around it.

This time, though, Sherlock seemed serious. Over the course of four hours, Sherlock managed to finish the dishes (including the ones he'd squirreled away in his bedroom), wipe down the counters, clean out the microwave, sweep and mop the kitchen floor, and clear out most of the uninvited life forms in the refrigerator. John could have done it faster, but Sherlock was _cleaning_ and John was loath to stop him.

Was intrigued, actually - Sherlock being domestic was a fascinating sight. He was dressed in blue jeans and a stained button-down which bore the evidence of many past science experiments. Odd, then, that John had never actually seen Sherlock wear it before. And had definitely never seen him wearing anything so plebeian as _jeans_. Although the jeans did fit him in much the same way the navy trousers from two weeks earlier had, and what with all the moving around and bending over Sherlock had to do to get the kitchen clean, John found he was having a rather difficult time concentrating on anything else.

The sigh had barely left his lips before Sherlock had abandoned the refrigerator and was kneeling in front of John's armchair.

"You're bored."

John considered. "Not bored, really. I do appreciate that you're cleaning up in there - both because I love that you can tell I want it and you care what I think, and also because it makes me feel a bit less taken for granted. But it makes me feel a bit guilty about it too, because I know you hate cleaning and you're only doing it for me."

"Ah." Sherlock narrowed his eyes, then plopped down crosswise in John's lap and dropped a perfunctory kiss on his forehead. "I don't hate making you happy, though, and that more than cancels out the fact that I hate cleaning." He curled his hands gently over John's shoulders, long fingertips just barely meeting in the back over John's spine, thumbs rubbing soothing circles against the sides of John's throat. "It's not just the cocaine, either - much as I despise sentiment as a matter of course, I find I'm usually happier when you're also content."

"But not enough to do the dishes the rest of the time."

"Correct." Sherlock smirked. "On balance, I'd say I'm a good forty percent right of center on the not-cleaning-versus-making-John-happy scale right now. Usually I'm closer to the middle or slightly to the left."

"Left is being a self-centered slob?"

"I prefer to think of it as focusing on more important things."

John shook his head. "Wanker."

"Not often."

John's startled laugh ended up being more of a cough. "I didn't mean -"

"I know you didn't, but you are genuinely curious and you like when I'm being honest with you about my personal life. And no, I don't masturbate as often as the average male - generally I only bother when my state of arousal starts interfering with my work."

"And how often is that?"

"Maybe once or twice a year?"

John drew back to gape at his flatmate. "You really - that little?" He immediately felt terrible for his reaction - what business was it of his to judge? "Sorry, just surprised. That _is_ uncommonly rarely."

Sherlock shrugged. "Hence why it's such a novelty now to have been feeling arousal for hours and not do anything about it. I've never taken the opportunity to study it firsthand before."

John fought to hide his grin. "Like it, do you?"

"I - suppose? I don't _dis_like it." He bit his lip and shifted in John's lap, the movement bringing John's cock closer to full attention itself. "I don't know how you can have had two orgasms in the last twelve hours and still be ready for another, though."

The grin broke through. "Practice?" John said with his best teasing look. One which was clearly both received and effective on his flatmate. Sherlock hummed and started tugging at John's jumper.

"Need more?" And he slid down to the ground between John's knees.


	8. Chapter 8

Note: I couldn't resist - when you get to the point in the story where you're saying "Oh my God I wish I could hear that," follow this link: www dot youtube dot com/watch?v=lvJ9Hd0f-tw. (Possibly a few times - you know, just to make sure you caught everything. Ahem.)

* * *

There were two more blow jobs over the course of the day, and another hand job first thing the next morning. John's cock was getting more of a workout than it had ever had before, even including his multiple-wanks-a-day teenage years. Sherlock was always very gentle, though, and other than the strange feeling of his libido actually being satisfied, John felt no ill effects.

It left him more brainpower to study Sherlock. John wasn't naive enough to assume Sherlock was being entirely altruistic, frequent blow jobs notwithstanding. Sherlock was never without ulterior motives, often ulterior motives which were completely inexplicable even after repeated attempts on his part to explain them. (John figures he might never completely forgive him for the attempted drugging-slash-poisoning of his tea at Baskerville - Sherlock's excuses basically boiled down to "because experiments.") It was possible that he really did enjoy making John happy, of course, but was that it? Or was there something more to it?

John had a sneaking suspicion there was something more. Yes, having their relationship tip over from platonic to sexual was a bit strange. It was somehow surprisingly comfortable, though, if a bit one-sided on the surface. Sherlock claimed he was enjoying the deducing, but what if he was really more entranced by the service aspect? Inspiration struck.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock popped his head around the doorway from the kitchen. "Finished your book already? You'll be suddenly realizing you're a bit cold, then - let me grab the afghan."

"No. I mean, yes, I suppose I am a bit chilly, but that's not what I was asking. Would you come read to me?"

Sherlock suddenly looked lost. "Read? I - fine?"

John waved vaguely in the direction of his laptop. "See if you can find some Shakespeare monologues on there or something. They're all on the internet - shouldn't be hard to find."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John and frowned. "It doesn't really count if you tell me, does it?"

"Pardon?"

"I mean, it's not like I deduced that you love Shakespeare. It doesn't count."

"I don't care about Shakespeare one way or the other, honestly," John replied. "I just want to hear your voice as you read it."

Sherlock flushed a lovely shade of pink, but did go pick up the laptop and start poking at it. "Anything in particular?"

"Not really."

"Right then." He cleared his throat. "I'll just pick something. From . . . here, someone pulled out a section already from a work called 'As You Like It.' Ahem. All the world's a stage . . ."

John closed his eyes and let his mind drift as Sherlock read. It wasn't just the deducing, then - Sherlock was enjoying this even though John directly told him what to do. And even though, strictly speaking, Shakespeare wasn't something he'd ever considered himself _needing_. Appreciating, yes, but only in that vague way you feel obligated to do because it's Great Art and only complete philistines don't appreciate Shakespeare. There was absolutely no way Sherlock could have "deduced" John would want this - and yet he was still reading. A sonnet, now, one John didn't recognize. It probably shouldn't have been surprising that Sherlock had excellent dramatic timing for this sort of thing.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock broke off and looked up from the screen.

"Come over here and lean your head against my leg." John patted his thigh. "I want to run my fingers through your hair for a few minutes."

Sherlock swallowed hard, but obediently put the laptop aside and came to sit on the floor at John's feet. John carded his fingers through Sherlock's dark curls, making Sherlock moan.

"I love seeing you like this," John said quietly. "Not just the deducing part - you've been a lot more in the present over the course of the last two days than I think I've ever seen you."

Sherlock nuzzled against the outside of John's thigh with his cheek. "I don't know why - it's vexing to not have a reason for my own behavior. And yet it's helping, definitely."

"Please know that I like you just fine when you're manic and too enthusiastic by half, too," John felt compelled to add. "But this feels different. You're being nice for the sake of being nice."

Sherlock's gaze drifted up to John's face. "You didn't want me going back to cocaine - wait. This is about something else. You're concerned."

John bit his lip and nodded. "You're being altruistic."

"I'm never altruistic."

John looked pointedly at his hand, which was still tracing through the fine curls at Sherlock's temples.

"I -" Sherlock's eyes lost their focus for a moment. "No, I've been _stupid_. I'm _not_ being altruistic. I'm finding this whole thing enjoyable, not just necessary to keep myself from reverting to previous behavior."

"You've found something that fires up your libido."

Sherlock's eyes and mouth both widened, and he looked up at John with a mixture of horror and desire.

"Nothing to worry about," John assured him. "As relationships go, it's a rather nice quirk to have. And you're particularly good at it, with the whole deducing thing."

Sherlock shut his mouth with an audible snap. "I - thank you."

"I think it's pretty clear this is an actual relationship now, though, don't you think?"

The look on Sherlock's face was priceless - awed and a bit hesitant. "I've never . . ." He stopped and swallowed. "I've never been in anything I'd call a 'relationship' before. I'm fairly sure that's not really my area."

"You're doing fine so far."

'I don't - I can't be this attentive to your needs all the time, John. Once the next case hits, I'm going to go back to brooding and talking to myself and playing the violin at all hours and forgetting to pick up after myself."

John leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to Sherlock's forehead. "I'm not asking you to change. Hell, I don't _want_ you to change - these last few days have been fantastic, don't get me wrong, but it would be a bit creepy if you were like this all the time."

Sherlock drew back. "You find it creepy?"

"Bad choice of words." John slid out of his chair so he and Sherlock were both seated on the floor, facing each other. Slowly - ever so slowly - he reached out and palmed the nape of Sherlock's neck, then drew him in for a long kiss. Sherlock hesitated only an instant before melting into the connection, mouth opening on a sigh. John didn't hesitate to take advantage. When they broke apart an eternity later, Sherlock's eyes were wide and full of wonder.

"I don't find this creepy at all, Sherlock," John whispered. "I just mean that I want it all - when you're manic, when you're quiet, when you're bored, when you're turned on and aching for release. I want all of you."

Sherlock's tongue darted out to moisten his lower lip. "I - can I ask for that too? From you?"

John felt a sweeping sense of relief he didn't even realize he was waiting for. "Of course." He scrambled to his feet, then offered Sherlock a hand up. "First, though, we're going to go into your bedroom and celebrate by letting me pay you back for all that attention you've been lavishing on me."

"Oh." Sherlock accepted the hand up, then paused. "You do mean sex, right?"

John let out a small laugh. "Yes, Sherlock, I mean sex."

"Good."

* * *

Satisfyingly sweet, I hope :-) I'm marking this one as finished, mostly because I'm eager to get on to my next idea. I may yet come back and add a final chapter (well, lemon) at the end, though, so feel free to favorite/follow/whatever and you'll get an email if and when I do.


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